enough in public. As Sandra said, God was a myth but religion was as real as rocks and far more useful to rulers.
Now I′m . . . not sure anymore, Tiphaine thought. I′m still not sure about God, that is, but the devil is starting to look awfully convincing. I′m going to have to have a talk with Delia about aligning with some protective spook or other. Even if I′d rather pull out my own toenails with my teeth.
She went on aloud, her voice coolly neutral:
″And Thurston is just too smart for comfort. He is having riverboats built in Pendleton, with the locals and the CUT supplying materials. Sethaz lets him do that—the Cutters have those religious taboos about machinery. But as long as we hold the castles and walled cities along the Columbia we can strike north or south at the flank of any invader and we have superior water transport for our logistics.″
″Clear enough, then. Let′s not get bogged down in military details at this point,″ Sandra said. ″I leave that to you, my lady Grand Constable, and to the Chancellor. What′s the state of morale, Conrad?″ she went on.
The thick-bodied man looked at the wineglass in his hand and said grudgingly: ″Uneven. The older nobles are being effusively loyal—and will stay that way as long as we keep the enemy outside our boundaries. If they get inside and it looks profitable to start cutting deals . . .″
He shrugged, and Tiphaine mentally followed suit. Norman Arminger had built a feudal kingdom, albeit a strong one; his personal obsession had been the eleventh-century Norman duchy and its offshoots. Homegrown varieties of neo-feudalism without the PPA′s elaborate organization and terminology . . .
Or our spiffy boots and radical-cool costumes , she thought.
. . . were certainly common in other areas of the continent, and evidently overseas as well. But.
But while loyalty is the great feudal virtue, unfortunately treachery is the corresponding vice , Tiphaine thought; history had been a compulsory subject in Sandra′s Household. And the older generation had to learn about loyalty, while treachery was something they already knew very, very well indeed. All those gangers . . .
Sandra had never pretended to be any sort of soldier, and generally didn′t try to joggle her subordinate′s elbows—unlike her husband′s practice. At politics, however . . .
″I′ve looked over the list of tenants-in-chief you want to summon to the muster,″ the Lady Regent went on. ″It′s approved, with the following modifications.″
She reached into an attaché case on the ground beside her and slid the typewritten schedules to them. Tiphaine took hers and her eyebrows went up. Tenants-in-chief held their land directly from the Throne on payment of mesne tithes—a share of their income—and service of knights, men-at-arms and foot soldiers of set number and equipment on demand. Part of the Grand Constable′s job was to see the troops were ready and call them up at need. The total numbers here were the same as her recommendations for the opening stages of the campaigning season, but some of those summoned were awkwardly placed.
Then she smiled thinly as the reasoning sprang out at her. The initial levies of House Stavarov, the Counts of Chehalis up near Puget Sound, were summoned for the war in the east and the rally point at Walla Walla—the Counts themselves, their menie of household knights and paid men-at-arms, spearmen and crossbowmen, their castle garrisons, their subinfeudiated vassals and their menies. The third string, the peasant militia and town levies, were detached for service under the Warden of the Coast March against the nuisance-verging-on-threat of Haida raiders. Which meant . . .
Conrad spoke first. ″Ah . . . Uriah the Hittite, my lady?″
If there′s anyone who would change sides when a Cutter army arrived in front of his castle gates, it′s Count Piotr Alexevitch Stavarov.
″I′ve nearly killed Piotr at least three times,″
Now I′m . . . not sure anymore, Tiphaine thought. I′m still not sure about God, that is, but the devil is starting to look awfully convincing. I′m going to have to have a talk with Delia about aligning with some protective spook or other. Even if I′d rather pull out my own toenails with my teeth.
She went on aloud, her voice coolly neutral:
″And Thurston is just too smart for comfort. He is having riverboats built in Pendleton, with the locals and the CUT supplying materials. Sethaz lets him do that—the Cutters have those religious taboos about machinery. But as long as we hold the castles and walled cities along the Columbia we can strike north or south at the flank of any invader and we have superior water transport for our logistics.″
″Clear enough, then. Let′s not get bogged down in military details at this point,″ Sandra said. ″I leave that to you, my lady Grand Constable, and to the Chancellor. What′s the state of morale, Conrad?″ she went on.
The thick-bodied man looked at the wineglass in his hand and said grudgingly: ″Uneven. The older nobles are being effusively loyal—and will stay that way as long as we keep the enemy outside our boundaries. If they get inside and it looks profitable to start cutting deals . . .″
He shrugged, and Tiphaine mentally followed suit. Norman Arminger had built a feudal kingdom, albeit a strong one; his personal obsession had been the eleventh-century Norman duchy and its offshoots. Homegrown varieties of neo-feudalism without the PPA′s elaborate organization and terminology . . .
Or our spiffy boots and radical-cool costumes , she thought.
. . . were certainly common in other areas of the continent, and evidently overseas as well. But.
But while loyalty is the great feudal virtue, unfortunately treachery is the corresponding vice , Tiphaine thought; history had been a compulsory subject in Sandra′s Household. And the older generation had to learn about loyalty, while treachery was something they already knew very, very well indeed. All those gangers . . .
Sandra had never pretended to be any sort of soldier, and generally didn′t try to joggle her subordinate′s elbows—unlike her husband′s practice. At politics, however . . .
″I′ve looked over the list of tenants-in-chief you want to summon to the muster,″ the Lady Regent went on. ″It′s approved, with the following modifications.″
She reached into an attaché case on the ground beside her and slid the typewritten schedules to them. Tiphaine took hers and her eyebrows went up. Tenants-in-chief held their land directly from the Throne on payment of mesne tithes—a share of their income—and service of knights, men-at-arms and foot soldiers of set number and equipment on demand. Part of the Grand Constable′s job was to see the troops were ready and call them up at need. The total numbers here were the same as her recommendations for the opening stages of the campaigning season, but some of those summoned were awkwardly placed.
Then she smiled thinly as the reasoning sprang out at her. The initial levies of House Stavarov, the Counts of Chehalis up near Puget Sound, were summoned for the war in the east and the rally point at Walla Walla—the Counts themselves, their menie of household knights and paid men-at-arms, spearmen and crossbowmen, their castle garrisons, their subinfeudiated vassals and their menies. The third string, the peasant militia and town levies, were detached for service under the Warden of the Coast March against the nuisance-verging-on-threat of Haida raiders. Which meant . . .
Conrad spoke first. ″Ah . . . Uriah the Hittite, my lady?″
If there′s anyone who would change sides when a Cutter army arrived in front of his castle gates, it′s Count Piotr Alexevitch Stavarov.
″I′ve nearly killed Piotr at least three times,″
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